


Would You Take My Hand (and take a life)

by Evenseven



Category: Fargo (TV)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Canon Compliant, Gaetano and Satchel BFF, Gaetano talking philosophy, Gen, I Don't Even Know, No Beta, Or not, Satchel eating chocolate, Season/Series 04, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28843494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenseven/pseuds/Evenseven
Summary: “Tell me, Satchel, do you miss home?”
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Would You Take My Hand (and take a life)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from: [Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28031547/chapters/69235833#workskin)
> 
> It was way better in my head than in writing. I'm just sorry for my bad writing.

“Is it true?” An innocent voice reached Gaetano’s ears hesitantly, the unfamiliar sound almost startled him as he turned away from the backyard, “You said that you were elven when your home was destroyed. Is it true?”

He raised an eyebrow, eyes fixed on the dark-skinned boy who was staring straight back. Amazed by the question, he waved the whiskey bottle in hand at the boy as a toast. “You picked up Italiano fast.”

“Rabbi teaches me Italian.” The boy was standing by the porch door, neatly dressed, shoulders spread and head held up high. He has a slender build, dark eyes large and sparkling, a face still youthful but tinted with a sip of sorrow.

“Right,” he paused for a second, almost forgot why this boy was in his family residence, “what’s your name again?”

“Satchel Cannon,” the boy answered him, this time with more assurance, never broke the eye contact, “and what is yours?”

“Gaetano Fadda.” He replied, feeling a bit absurd how anyone would ask his name in his own house. “Tell me, Satchel, do you miss home?” 

He leaned against the white fences around the porch, where it led a narrow passage swirled towards the backyard garden. The garden was lovely during day time, colorful flourishes and fir bushes around a tiny fountain, his mother hired some expensive gardeners to take care of. But after nightfall, even in a clear winter night like this, the brisk breeze sent chills to his spine, and the garden smelled of death. Not stinky corps or gun powders, but cold and death. So silent, so dark, so coarse, so dead.

But here he was, standing alone in the marble-paved passage leading to darkness, drinking his whiskey and enjoying the peace of a silent night like a lunatic. He wasn’t expecting company, so the presence of that Cannon boy surprised him more than it should. 

“Yes.” Satchel answered, holding a breath that indicated he had more to say, but he held his tongue in check.

The boy must be terrified, or so he should. Being in a strange place and living with everyone that was supposed to be the enemy, unwillingly sacrificed himself for the good of family business. Maybe this was what Josto felt like, after all he had heard, the exchange wasn’t a lovely experience that his _fratello_ liked talking about at a Sunday dinner. That’s why this boy was following the Irish everywhere, like shadows of one another. So what was he doing here, talking to him right now?

“Do you want to go back home?” An obvious question.

Satchel nodded, a tingle of confusion flickered in his big black eyes along with the lamp inside the porch window.

“I missed home, too, when I was elven. Then the fascists came and destroyed everything.” He took a step closer to the door frame, fascinated by the fact that this boy was just watching him, didn’t even flinch slightly at his movement. And most of the adults did. He let out a dry laugh as the memories of torment flooded back into his mind.

What was it like before? The sky was always a sandy brown color from the gun fires, even in the clearest night, the sea breeze licked the back of his head with a scent of blood. He was cold and alone, fighting his way through the war zone in a place so different than everything he had known. But he was connected to this land by blood, by soul, by the name of his family, and he had sworn to take back everything that once belonged to him, being merely at the age of eleven or not.

“Unlike you, I didn’t have a home to go back to.” His voiced was low, blew into the winter night almost like a whisper. “And unlike the Irish, I didn’t go find another home and try to fit in. Instead, I built myself a new one.”

The boy seemed slightly taken aback, round eyes flickered under the moonlight. Satchel did not voice a word, and Gaetano wondered how much did the boy comprehend his remarks. It never mattered to him, though, the boy could have his own judgement even if they were in a similar situation. They were all free, although different in so many things. They should all be wielding their own weapons and being responsible for it, Gaetano never believed in manipulation—if you got killed by someone, it was only your own fault that you were not strong enough to best them. Therefore, he fared not any enemy for he was well trained and confident in the game of killing.

“Rabbi said we have to deal with the cards in our hands,” Satchel crooked his head slightly to the right, “that’s from the poker game.”

“He was right,” Gaetano held up the whiskey bottle, deciding this was the final talk for tonight, “the most important thing is _how_ you deal with them.”

Now he’s talking philosophy, there’s nothing more absurd than this idea in his mind, maybe except the fact that he was talking philosophy with a _banbino_. But there was something with Satchel that he liked, something he couldn’t quite explain or simply put into words. Maybe it was the stillness in the kid’s motion, or how he held his dignity in an alien household, or the fearless and respectful quality he displayed when he faced a man so much stronger than him. Gaetano was used to frightened shiver or the derision in his enemies’ eyes, yet this kid possessed neither of these.

There was a long pause in the conversation, as Satchel trying to process his remarks. “I should probably go back.” Finally he said, rubbing his ever-widening eyes as a gesture of fatigue.

“You should never come out here.” Gaetano found himself smiling at nothing, just a little, but no other soul would know. “ _Va_ , don’t keep the Irish waiting.”

“ _Buonanotte, signore._ ” The juvenile voice came back, accompanied with a bigger smile that even the darkness of the night couldn’t shield away.

*

_Click, click, click._

The small bumping noise coming from above his head never waived, and Gaetano was losing his patient. The sound was driving him crazy, like an everlasting nightmare that kept chasing him, choking him, killing him. The house was never quiet with constant talking sound floating in mid air, but that was business, and he learned to live with that. Not the fucking clicking in the wall. All he wanted right then was some time of peace, simple as that, he still could get. He thought of turning on some music, but even with the bright melody soothing his nerves, his mind kept hyper-fixated on the sound inside his celling.

Whatever the fuck’s going on upstairs was going to stop all at once, or he _would_ stab someone for it. 

No one could stop him from storming upstairs, raging every step on the wooden plates until he finally reached the attic. He did not bother to knock before he cracked the door open, preparing to lash out his rage at whatever’s inside the room.

Instead, he found a pair of innocent black eyes started back at him, and all the fury seemed to be chocked out from him in an instance.

“ _Ragazzo_ ,” he took a deep breath, eyes rolled back at the marbles Satchel held in his hands, “you gotta stop playing with that, or you will regret.” The words came out way less threatening than he thought it would, and for some strange reasons, he didn’t mind at all.

“Sorry…” Satchel dropped his head, the unease in his motion was too obvious to ignore. He stuffed the little stones away into the bedside drawer, quietly and carefully avoided the Italian’s eyes. Orange afternoon light leaked through the upper window and painted his skin to a golden brown, Gaetano was astonished at the sight.

He collected his thoughts, looked around the small attic bedroom to find a sweet silence that he craved all day soaking in the air. “Where’s Rabbi?” Normally the Irish would give him death stare whenever he got even a little closer to the kid, though he had no idea why such over-protectiveness was necessary.

“Out.” Not much of a talker, Gaetano had noticed such.

“Well, then,” he couldn’t help but notice another thing, there’s a tingle of anxiety and loneliness flickered in the kid’s bright eyes, “I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“You don’t know that.” Satchel surprised him with another quick reply, casting his glittering eyes down on the pebbles in hands, “Rabbi always says that if he didn’t come back, he’s either dead or in jail.”

Jail, the concept made Gaetano laugh in his head, but the smirk never formed in his face. This boy probably had no idea what was like being in jail, yet he’s picturing the worst case scenarios while Rabbi could be merely having a drink at the bar. The sadness flowing through those bright eyes was almost too much for Gaetano to bear. The same sadness he had seen in the kid when he was asked about childhood back in Italy. His eyes were filled with sympathy and sorrow then, no pity or empty promise, exactly like right now when he thought about the guy he respected as a guardian. As family.

His own youth, Gaetano contemplated, was overwhelmed with so much hate, rage, loneliness, and confusion. He had nothing but a broken home, only strangers to him that called family. Now he was watching yesterday’s ghost, haunting a child that wasn’t supposed to be any part of this war between clans.

“Do you want some chocolate?” He asked, suddenly feeling more self-conscious than ever, but the sparkles of a thousand stars in Satchel’s black eyes when their gaze met reassured him enough, so Gaetano continued the offer, “Come down to the living room with me. I’ll have the cook make some angel parfaits for you, those are really delicious.”

*

Sometimes you needed to be patient, even when you’re furious and restless. Gaetano learned it from hiding in trees and caves and waiting the fascists to pass by, while he had no other wish than putting his hands around their necks, squeezing so hard that their life would be choked out in a blink. Still, he had to wait, like a predator hunting its clueless prey, he had to wait for the right moment to burst out all his rage.

So he watched. He watched as the simple joy flowed through the kid’s eyes as he eating milk chocolates, he sat back in the couch and commented something like “chocolate can chase away your sadness.” He watched as those radiant black eyes blinked at him, and the kid whispered “then you should eat some more.” He watched as the whipping cream of the angel parfait spread a snowy layer on Satchel’s lips, an involuntary smile creeped onto his owns. He watched as the front door slid open, the Irish walked through the door and visibly panicked. He watched as the lean young man rushed to Satchel’s side, questioning was he well physically and why he left that tiny attic. He watched as the skinny Irishman advanced at him, stood as tall as the man he claimed to be, barked at his face like he was a fucking kidnapper.

He watched silently, as _O Sole Mio_ was sung to the second verse in his head, and he had almost squeezed his fingers around Rabbi’s neck if Satchel was eating the parfait still.

_Quanno fa notte e ’o sole se ne scenne, me vene quasi ’na malincunia; sotto ’a fenesta toia restarria, quanno fa notte e ’o sole se ne scenne.…_

“You,” Rabbi was pissed enough to have red-rimmed eyes when he barked at Gaetano, “get the fuck away from him, you hear me? Back. Off.”

Gaetano didn’t response right away, he inhaled deeply, aware that Satchel was still there and he deserved all the sweets was eating.

The afternoon sun was still shinning, and he felt more relaxed than ever in the past decade. He wouldn’t let anyone ruin this peaceful moment, so maybe he’d knock some manner back into this skinny head later.

“But Rabbi,” that innocent voice rang out of the blue, evacuating the traceless gunpowder smell in the air, “Gaetano said he was going to teach me self-defense.”

“Hell no!” “Yes I would!”

Then there was silence, and the icy blaze of Rabbi’s glare made the golden decor in the living room less hurting to his eyes. Gaetano never averted his gaze, he stared back with equal zeal and fury, until the Irish gaped back into Satchel’s eyes, and turned around with a sigh.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Rabbi let his eyes fell on the window where the last ray of sunlight shined through, his words lightweight like a mere murmur.

“Yes!” “Yes.” The kid and Gaetano replied at the same time.

Rabbi swung his slender frame around, and Gaetano was ready for any kind of blow all the time, so he stared back into the Irishman’s eyes, only to find a shade of soft blue in those clear orbs, the gaze so full of tenderness Gaetano had never seen in this man.

“Well, I guess Satchel could use some self-defense lessons then—but _only_ for self-defense.”

The last remark evoked a smirk in Gaetano’s face. Rabbi sounded like a desperate father of a rebellious kid, and Satchel was satisfied enough with his reply. 

Gaetano didn’t care about Rabbi, truly. If he wanted, he would take good care of the kid, or teach him how to properly stab someone, or simply share some of his favorite sweets with him. He was ineffably content purely because of the golden ray of the afternoon sun, delightfully chasing away the grimy smell of this land and warming up Satchel’s chocolate eyes. The song in his head kept playing, which he vaguely recalled hearing from some street corners years ago, in a sunny dusk like today.

_Pe’ ll’aria fresca pare già na festa, che bella cosa na jurnata ’e sole!_

**Author's Note:**

> Title from- [Used to the Darkness](https://youtu.be/7MrRi-2nokM) by Des Rocs  
> It's a good song, give it a try plz.
> 
> Lyrics of _O Sole Mio_ :
> 
>  _Quanno fa notte e ’o sole se ne scenne, me vene quasi ’na malincunia; sotto ’a fenesta toia restarria, quanno fa notte e ’o sole se ne scenne._ \- When night comes and the sun has gone down, I almost start feeling melancholy; I’d stay below your window, when night comes and the sun has gone down.
> 
>  _Pe’ ll’aria fresca pare già na festa, che bella cosa na jurnata ’e sole!_ \- The air is so fresh that it already feels like a celebration. What a beautiful thing is a sunny day!


End file.
